


Beta Prompt Set

by wanderlustlover



Series: AU Hogwarts [3]
Category: AU Hogwarts, Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustlover/pseuds/wanderlustlover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Howgarts was a multi-fandom game where anyone from any canon could have been "tweaked" into being part of the Harry Potter Universe.</p><p>These are the prompts from the Beta set. I wrote them in order of prompt numbers, once upon a time, but I'll try to sort them into a sort of timeline sense as I'm adding them up this time (if I have the time once they are all up).</p><p>Most of them are focused on Jo and Dean's relationship after she graduated Hogwarts, but some of them are about the years in school focusing on Sokka, Leah & Jo, too. (And some later writings, to throw Steph in!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walking (#1)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Weaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weaver/gifts).



Sokka is main reasons, even a decade later, she can't look at the Hogwarts grounds without the urge to walk across it. All those walks too and from the lake, around it, diving and running through the edges of the forbidden forest, when the three of them could get away with it.

Leaves in their hair from bending down and scooping them up, and throwing them at each other, like there was no other world. Just the idealic, endless way time always felt when you were young. She could have walked it seventeen times and day still wouldn't be over.

 

Now she walks it feeling like years will pass before she'll pass the doors again.


	2. Waltz (#2)

"I know how to dance. I can do that one-two-three, one-two-three-"

"Waltz," Jo intruded, laughing through a hand. "I learned it when I was twelve. Too. Boys fidgeting in chairs and girls clinging like vines to the wall. And we were sure everyone was going to stay like that forever."

And just as fast as she'd begun smiling that great, pleased smile of hers.  
It vanished. Vanished entirely. With a crease between her eyebrows.

"Did it stay that way at yours school?" Uncertain which way it might have gone, where it was lost.  
Also, easier to ask, because if she was answering, he wasn't talking about his Arkham.

Jo frowned a little, shaking her head. "No." Her mouth quirked and her eyes were on the island, where her hand rested. "No, we-" is very much quieter, more still. "I was so impulsive, and it was so easy to convince Sokka.."

Dean didn't interrupt, didn't even notice when the food began to burn.

"With a smile and a joke. We'd spent so long learning. And so we threw ourselves on the floor. Stepping on each others feet, not because we didn't know, but because we kept laughing at each other trying to be all gallant about it."

It was only the second or third time she'd said that name still. Early enough he didn't really have heads of tails on who or what or why or how important or in what way. Just the way her voice shifted. So far away.

Behind a door. That he's never sure which side he's on and she's on when it happens.


	3. Wishes (#3)

"Hold still." Jo had reached out to his face.

"What?" Dean asked, pulling back with a grimace.

"Hey. That's not still." A fingertip swiped his cheek bone. "There."

She held it out. Perfectly curved dark eyelash on the top of her fingertip.

"Make a wish," she said, and Dean looking over it.

Over her finger and his eyelash, to Jo Harvelle, The WHD, laying on his bed, without any signature about her, anything that even hinted at all those rumors and stories, and everything he thought of now when he thought of her. When anyone said that codename in a hallway even.

Her bare shoulders and defined collar bones, half covered in hair that had shaken loose of a knot, her ankles cross up in the air behind her, past the slope of her back and the rise of her bottom. Shamelessly dappled in only sunlight. Staring at only him.

Waiting. With her eyebrows raised, pertly teasing.  
"You've already had that. You're supposed to be making a wish."

He didn't think he'd ever have enough of whatever that was. Or wasn't. Of all of it. He shook his head, odd wry smile stealing his mouth. She had absolutely no idea. None at all. "Where did you come from. And how do I make sure no one ever finds you?"

Jo smirked, but her eyes grew softer. "You make a wish."


	4. Wonder (#4)

She watches him when he sleeps a lot in the beginning.

She's been trained to be hair sensative to things. In case.

 

These things would include anytime he shifts in bed, anytime he breathes, every time they touch. And just when she really, really, wants to be annoyed at him, because she'll need to work in two or three hours, and she could just apparate home to her own bed, you know, she has that damn power, she'll look up and catch that look on his face.

 

Dean Winchester. The Untouchable, of Mysteries. Not so well known to anyone anywhere here. With all his guards down. His face so relaxed. Eyelashes sweeping downward, with faintest extra darkness to the shadows there. The way his jaw slopes when there's no tension.

The pretty shape of his mouth. Who ever gave a man permission have such a pretty mouth. The way everything is relaxed about him. The curve of his neck and the way his shoulders are held. And she'll curl up to her pillow, not even giving a damn she's losing another minute every minute now.

This person right here, the one beyond all the walls, is the reason she's so captivated.


	5. Worry (#5)

It's not something she actually has done a lot of, strictly speaing.

You can worry about things a lot or you can not. You can let it hold you back or you can not. Jo had to figure this out when she was very, very young. When half the faces she attached herself, marched out her parents bar door and never came back. Men and women of all shapes and sizes and age, who twirled her hair, tapped her nose, and even ignored her existence.

And then she went away. Somewhere that no one was fighting, and no one was dying, and she never forgot people were -- she went home on the holidays, and she brought friends home, she had to explain it to, who never entirely got it -- but she wasn't in that same world anymore. Hogwarts was nothing like the Road House.

And Jo of Hogwarts became someone that Jo of the Road House wasn't.

Acknowledging and knowledgable but not neck-deep inside of, not daily living it.

 

So it's strange when at twenty-three, already wordly reknown to all the wrong people, for being everything she love and anything but herself, doing things she knows would worry those that love her, but they don't know she they don't worry, so she doesn't worry about it, that she learns to worry.

Just the smallest bit.

About a boy in his last twenties with hypnotizing greeen eyes.  
Who just might walk out the door any morning and never return to her.

 

Who is the first person she's ever told to 'be safe' in her life. Who even the first time she said it, scrunched her nose like she'd suddenly said words in a foreign language, after he'd walked out. Because she didn't expect or want him to be safe. No more than he wanted her to be. Neither of them care all that much about the blood and scars and fights and chance.

But.

What she did want and need? Was for him to actually come home.

 

To be alive at the end of the day, night, week. And maybe that's why she never stops saying it. Never gives it any force, never says it like it should stop him, never looks terribly invested in saying it, but never stops. In bed, when she's only half awake watching him wander, reading book, running off to her own things.

Be safe. Be alive.

 

And I'll try for the first time, too.


	6. Whimsy (#6)

Every time he thinks he has her figured out she does something else.  
He tries to glue all the pieces together in his head, when she's distracted.

The girl who is girl that isn't a girl who scares people far worse than either of them will ever be. Who totally is renown for snapping people's wands, while the red tape administration pretends to turn its head and cough, letting her get away with this truly heinous thing because of the other things she accomplishes in doing it. Who doesn't ever say no to case offered to her, and frequently fights for ones people want to tell her aren't possible.

The girl who takes window panes from windows to smell autumn roll over her skin. Who will run outside and twirl in the rain. Who makes wishes on eye lashes. Who drinks firewhiskey like it's water. and remembers the smallest sentences out of the deepest, more boring curse case books. The girl whose goodness never wavers and whose temper is unpredictably hellish, unaccountably insensible.

The girl whose scars you can see will never be as important as the ones you can't. Who is so good at magic, but can't conceal her disgust for people who are dependent on only it. Whose love for her shotgun outmatches her love for her wand. The girl with a million locked doors into herself, and these sudden blinding flashes of light that teasingly say they'll give you everything if you just step a little closer right now.

Demons and monsters, dictators and dragons and death eaters, and at the end of the day she still laughs, swinging golden curls and smiling more with those copper eyes than her mouth. Who sleeps like a brick, like a child, when she's sick and is the absolute worst patient in the world. Who is so opinionated and controlling where it comes to anything involving her work.

It's a whole world of mismatched miracles.

Things he never could have known he wanted.

And spends minutes trying to figure how to never let go.


	7. Waste (#7)

He opens his eyes, the second time ever, to see Jo Harvelle, sitting up, examining his wand.

And the first thought, shoving aside her undressed distraction in the swirl of blanket, when he snaps his first words without thinking it, is that it can't be possible that he's going to have to fight her for his wand, to keep it in one piece, before he even has pants back on.

Jo startled, a shake of her body, but not a jump, not an inch off the bed. Things explode near her enough, all the time, but she had not expected one of those thing to be the rather sedately sleeping form of Dean Winchester. Launching up. Reaching out to swipe the wand.

The one she doesn't even move. Letting him.

Raising her eyebrows. "Chill, seriously."

"Chill?! You're--"

"Just looking at it?" Jo tilted her head, staring at him still. "Do I need to give you mine just to prove the point?" She might. She might not though, given his all worked-up face. "I'm already sure you could punch me if you wanted."

Not that she expected sensible from sex, but he had seemed sensible.  
Even if he was staring at her like she wasn't making the smallest damned sense.

"I'm sure our father's wouldn't have been too far apart on that point when we were young." And Jo shrugged, because she lived her monikers, her codename, the rumors that went with it, she supposed he had a right to freak out. "About being able to defend yourself even without weapons. Or, you know, wands."

There's was a pause, as she looked at him. And nothing, nothing about that look screamed naked girl on his bed. Her eyes were dark and serious and so sharp. Like a knife, from the way her shoulders were set, to how her hands settled on her lap where the blanket was twisted in a coil, even the way her mouth hardened a little.

"No, I don't have a problem leveling the playing field if my opponent is stupid enough to not know how to defend themselves. That's their problem. I spend a lot of my time making sure that I will never not be caught that way." And then. She tilted her head.

And her hair did this interesting, stupidly distract waterfall, thing, as she smiled. Smiled. Suddenly. Like the sun coming out from behind clouds. Like a ripple across all of her, making her stretch from her shoulders, down to her toes under the blanket. "But not usually in bed. To people who haven't been stupid enough to attack me."

 

And it really was the first time he wasn't sure she wasn't crazy. Or right.


	8. Whiskey & Rum (#8)

At least it's a bar, where he can get a damn drink.

Stupid fucking Sam and this lol!cats curse.

 

He'd get the that off. Eventually.  
And he'd get Sam back. Eventually.

But he could probably get a drink now.  
Or as soon as he finished reporting Peter.

 

All three of which he forgets entirely when the door closes.  
Along with Sam at his side. Along with Bobby at that door.

 

Because he knows the voice before he turns toward the table.

 

Jo Harvelle. At the head of the table, speaking to everyone there.  
Jo Harvelle. With her precise hands and eyes that direct everything.  
Jo Harvelle. Who he last saw lying in a bed, trying to die, three years ago.

 

 

There are not enough drinks, curses or paybacks in the world all of the sudden.


	9. War (#9)

There is always a war going on. They were both raised that way.

It's not as simple as there will be another war, there will be worse people and always power to abuse eventually. There is always darkness. There will always be monsters. Out there. Right now. This second.

They know. How to see it. Spot it. Simple articles. Reports from place that were once-and-never-quite-not home across the world. It's a given. What is not a given though is the spaces where there isn't a war going on.

 

Someone forgot to prepare them. Though. Never told them.

 

There would be so much laughter, like the moments he'd wrap his arms around her waist and drag her to his side of the couch, sending her files or book flying and forgotten, because leaning over and just kissing her skin wasn't enough.

Or how many smiles could be produced by her damnably curious inability not to taste food cooking before it was ready, every time, that tiny finger in her mouth and those bright eyes, that kill him everytime.


	10. Weddings (#10)

It's the game she plays, he loves best at times.

 

If you're a relationship with anyone long enough, in a specific age bracket, people around you start doing that thing. Where they meet and kiss, and move in and get married and have kids. And so they send you cards and invite you to things. And for as much as she doesn't have a vast social circle, Jo knows people.

Sure, they're ministry people. But she doesn't share Dean's surprise at the wedding invite. Just shrugs her shoulders and tells him, "I'll buy a dress that's totally bordering improper if you come keep me sane."

 

It's a good dress, too. Cherry red, clinging through the whole top and center, with drop scarves in the skirt. A little too floaty. A little too bohemian. A little too low cut. A little too form fitting. It makes her glow in the sunlight, with all that corn silk hair left free around her shoulders.

But neither the dress or her liar's smile about being 'so glad to be here' as she kissed the stressed bride's cheek (a girl from their department, if not very important) when they arrived, is really as amusing as the way she tilts her head, narrowing her eyes at the reception room being set up.

When she frowns, as though it's her place and says she'll never have those flowers at her wedding. The noise and face Dean made, though not the reason for it, made her laugh. Looping her arm in his, still a little too amused, when she added, not that she was ever getting married. But she just had better taste.

 

The kind of taste that involved spending the next two hours pointing out exactly what were the most terrible and tackiest of the ideas had by anyone involved in this fiasco, in the most pointed of tiny whispers. (Even if, she did sit quiet and still through the more sentimental parts of it.)


End file.
